Torture of the Mind

A/N: I would be very grateful if you took a minute or two to review this story. Thank you very much-and please bear the following in mind: the author and narrator are not necessarily the same person.

With a troubled mind I write this-for troubled I am, anxious is my mind, restless my body. I am being tortured night and day; I feel utterly forsaken, utterly lonely, utterly wretched; for I am affected by the terrible phenomenon called unrequited love. From this source my pain springs, together with my frustration, my unfulfilled passions.

I can still see your eyes and your lips. How sweet the gleam from the former was, how wise the words that flowed from the latter! I longed for you, I yearned for you - you were taken by another.

Stupid wallflower, little toad that I am! How I tried to crush my hopes, how I wanted to muffle the accelerated beat of my heart when you were nearby; most sincerely did I wish to stifle all my emotions, these horrible sentiments which are such an essential part of our being a human. What good did my tears do? They burnt my cheek during the cold night, they froze my skin when I moved underneath the sun. Most cruelly love has treated me. She is said to be the sweetest and purest of all emotions; I declare her to be a traitor and a curse in disguise of a blessing. Not only has this gnawing love been neglected-I myself have been neglected, shut out from friendship and familiar faces, flung out into the empty void which forms my shroud of loneliness. My wounds bleed tears; my eyes weep blood; if I were out of stone, I would be spared this ordeal. Every breath I draw is laced with poisonous pain. I exhale only to inhale fresh pangs of pain. My heart is wracked with a thousand pangs like the stabs and thrusts of fiery daggers; I have become pale and thin. I am wasting away from all this grief, from this increasing mental conflict. How many times have I been forced to the stony ground, how many times have I risen from thence, bleeding and exhausted; only to be thrown down again, to be trampled upon like a part of the ground itself, and to stagger up again, bruised, the life half crushed out of me?

My hands shake, my breath falters, my eyes mist over with tears. I hang down my head as my suffering clings to my shoulders, trying to make me bend my knees as it rests its most unwelcome burden upon me. I try to look up; try to think with a clear mind; that there are other sufferers in the world besides me, experiencing pain and trials far worse than mine-beyond imagination. I admonish myself, rebuking myself, saying that I should be content with my lot and make the best out of my current condition. If only it were so easy! Such thoughts prove to be more melancholy than encouraging, only strengthening my idea that the world is a wicked place; they make me wonder whether our Creator has forsaken us. I scream at my treacherous mind, scolding it, accusing it of blasphemous thoughts; but if I have no faith in myself, can I have faith in anything-in anyone-else? Is such a thing possible?

My sorrow eats away at me like a malicious disease, reducing me to a shadow of a shadow, drawing from my eyes a constant burning sensation, a constriction at the back of my throat as I strive to fight down the vocal form of my grief; and at times a sudden shuddering and shivering seizes my whole body. I have thought of death; but what lies behind such a doom? I have not the courage to find out; and is such a way out not considered as an unforgivable sin? I shun people as people shun me. With numb feet do I walk; with numb hands do I do what has to be done. But troubled am I in mind because I feel a numbness take over my soul, slowly, ever so slowly, creeping in every vein and cell, killing every sensation. I am a living corpse. Torture of the mind, you have reduced me to scorched ruins; a heap of smouldering ashes. Alas, unlike the phoenix, I cannot rise again-never!